


Welcome to Bridgewater

by tiptoethrough



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:37:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoethrough/pseuds/tiptoethrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the SPN Summergen 2013 prompts: "I'd love pre-series fic of Mary hunting, either as a teenager before she meets John and struggling with whether or not this is what she wants out of life, or after her parents die and she and John get married. Maybe something comes to Lawrence and she decides to deal with it" and "Pre-series fic: Sam joins the high school soccer team, and he's actually pretty good. Dean makes fun of him for it (but he still shows up to the games). A case happening in the background would be great."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Bridgewater

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coyotesuspect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotesuspect/gifts).



    Sam awoke, his head cracking roughly against the window as his body jolted out of slumber. He swiped at his face, digging the heel of his palm in hard against an itch at his eyebrow.

    Outside the window, Bridgewater Maine’s central street dragged by, empty and desolate. God, thought Sam, another barren town overrun with dead bodies. He peered through the dirty glass of the Impala’s window up at the sky. Grey, just like the town.

    “Sammy?”

    “I heard you, Dean. _Welcome to Bridgewater_. Where’s the school?”

    “The school’s actually in Mars Hill. That’s where we’re stayin’,” grumbled Dad. The car slowed as they drove past a small cluster of buildings; a post office that looked all but deserted, one house, and some dreary store fronts. Looked like this was the heart of downtown.

    “Then what are we doing here?”

    Dean passed a map back over his shoulder, and Sam took it from him tiredly. Red marks– more than he expected– slashed into the page indicated the dead and missing. All arranged roughly in a ring around Bridgewater.

    “So, whatever we’re hunting, this is homebase?” Sam asked, looking out the back window at the post office fading in the distance.

    “Whatever _I’m_ hunting,” their father reiterated. “You’re going to school.”

    The back of Sam’s neck felt hot. As if he wanted to hunt, or to drag themselves across the goddamned country in this rattling hunk of metal. Sam went back to his perusal of the map.

    “Do the ‘x’s and the slashes mean anything different?”

    “Time,” Dean mumbled around a hunk of chocolate, extending his hand to Sam in offer. Sam shook his head mutely. Dean swallowed hard, and Sam wondered if he might choke.

    “Chew your food,” he muttered.

    Dean ignored him. “The crosses are within the last 10 years. The slashes are late 60s.”

    “What’s the, uh, MO?”

    “None,” Dad said, turning the car onto what looked like a highway.

    “None?”

    “There’s no bodies,” Dad muttered, “Only missing persons, but– Well, all the missing are women.”

    “Hookers,” Dean interjected with a grin.

    “Why are you grinning?” Sam muttered sullenly.

    “Relax, Sammy. There’s no wonder no one went looking for them s’all. I told Dad it probably wasn’t even our kind of thing.” Dean turned around in his seat and ruffled through the pages on his lap. “Still not sure it is.”

    “I just have– a feeling. There’s a gap in the killings spanning decades.”

    “Could be two different pervs– er, perps,” Dean suggested.

    “Could be,” echoed Dad, but something in his voice told Sam that he wasn’t even entertaining the thought. Sam breathed in deep, his lungs expanding too fast at the edges, pain squeezing his chest. Outside the window the fields rolled past, not yet green with the late April promise of new life. In the distance Sam could see a crumbling old barn, abandoned to the weather a decade ago. The Impala skimmed through a puddle, and Sam’s view dissolved into water droplets.

\------------------

    Mary’s charm bracelet caught on the edges of the page she was running her fingers over. She shook her wrist, pulling away, and stared into the depthless eyes peering at her in black and white.

    “How long do you think the hunt in Wisconsin will be?” she asked.

    “I dunno,” Leanne muttered. Mary scarcely heard her over the staccato pounding against the car roof and windows. “Damn this rain.”

    “Well,” Mary said, “I hope it’s a good week, because it won’t take them long to find us now we’ve run into Derek at that truck stop.”

    “By the time they drag their asses to Maine, we’ll have proof that this is our deal. I’m telling you Mary, _something_ , not someone, is taking these women. And if no men are gonna do something about it, well, it’s up to the real hunters.”

    Mary laughed, but it sounded hollow to her own ears. Leanne was older than her, and when she’d asked Mary to come, she’d sounded so sure that this was their kind of thing. What if their fathers were right, and this hunt wasn’t a hunt at all. Mary knew that her dad wouldn’t be pleased when he found her gone. She was sure he wouldn’t think that two girls their age could handle this. Most men wouldn’t. “Derek’s gonna call Dad for sure. Most hunters don’t really think a couple of teenaged girls count as being... one of them.”

    “Jesus, Mary, who cares what Derek thinks. A real hunter– does _this_ , just what we’re doing. Saving people, hunting things. It’s what Dad and Uncle Sam always say. The only reason we’re taking this alone is because– because men are dumb, and these missing women–” Leanne reached over and smacked the pages in Mary’s hands. “They’ve put them in the second category instead of the first. Hey– here we are.”

    Mary couldn’t read the sign until they were close enough that the car’s headlights slashed through the rain, illuminating the tin words. She squinted through the rain sluicing down the window as the car rolled through a deep puddle. _Welcome to Bridgewater_.

\------------------

    “I can’t believe we’re living in an actual apartment!” Sam said, loudly enough that he was sure Dean could hear him in the living room. He was standing in his own room, small though it was. There were probably rich people with closets bigger than this. There were probably _middle class_ people with closets bigger than this, Sam thought with a wry grin. But it was his. _His own room_. Sometimes Sam wondered what his room would be like in their house in Lawrence, but as the years passed he had learned it was one of those things best left alone.

    He wandered into the tiny main room, with its counter, fridge and stove against one wall, and a television and a long, comfy sofa against the other, its hideous floral pattern faded from the sun streaming in through the window behind it. A small round table with two chairs sat in the middle of the room. Sam flung himself onto the sofa next to Dean. “Where’s Dad?”

    Dean was watching the TV. Sam had to repeat the question for him to hear. “Kaleb called... Hunt in Illinois. Urgent. Three dead in four days. I’ll take you to register for school tomorrow.”

    “Aren’t _you_ going to school?” Sam asked. Dean was supposed to be graduating this year, but Sam didn’t know if it was actually going to happen.

    “No, I’m getting a part time down the street. I’m, uh... I got more important things to do than school.” Dean sighed and got up to flick the television off. He leaned against it, facing Sam. His face was dark. “We’ve never really done a case like this, no evidence that it’s even a monster. Just Dad’s gut feeling. Dad needs help with research and stuff.”

    “So what, _you’re_ gonna do research? You suck at it. I’m good at research,” Sam muttered.

    “ _Sam_.” Sam heard the warning in his brother’s voice. “Stay out of this case. You know how Dad feels–”

    “Come on, Dean! It’s not like I’m strapping up with a machete, I’m just saying I can help with the research; I’m good at it.”

    “You’re not hunting, Sam. Not at all, not yet. That’s all there is to it.”

    Sam opened his mouth to argue, but his throat felt as if it were stuck closed. The back of his neck burned with embarrassment. It occurred to him that he could storm off to his own room if he wanted. He did just that, and he slammed the door twice to make sure Dean got the picture. He threw himself down on his bed, breathing deeply. The air filtered through the old pillow was musty. Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He pictured the face he’d come to know through faded photographs, eternally smiling. Mom was never angry at Sam when he thought of her... he’d never seen pictures of what she’d look like angry, and Sam didn’t know her face well enough to imagine what she’d look like. Sometimes it was hard just to picture her, and he couldn’t conjure up her features no matter how hard he tried. Lying on the bed in his tiny room, all Sam could picture was a set of dark eyes above a gaping maw with sharp teeth, getting closer...

    Sam wished Denver had never happened. He couldn’t imagine it going worse than it had. Dean’s first hunt, he’d come home with blood spattered across his face, breathing heavy with the exhilaration of his triumph. It hadn’t been his own blood. He was 14.

    “Well,” Dean had murmured as he pressed a wad of cloth into Sam’s neck in their room at the motel that had wrongly advertised itself _Colorado’s Finest_ , “You aren’t 14. You’re 13.”

    “Big difference that is,” Sam had muttered, eyes downcast, directed away from Dean’s face.

    Sam remembered the sound of Dean’s sigh. When Sam’s eyes involuntarily were pulled to his face, he saw Dean lick his bottom lip in that way he did when he didn’t know what to say next. Sam felt the pressure on his neck ease up. When blood began to snake a hot trail into the divet between his collarbones, Dean resumed the pressure, bearing the cloth against Sam’s neck so hard it hurt.

    “Sammy,” Dean began, faltering at whatever he saw returned in Sam’s face.

    “Don’t call me Sammy,” Sam had told him, voice tight, hating the childish nickname though he had never felt more like a helpless kid.

    “Alright, here we go.” Their father’s voice had made Sam jump, he remembered, and he stared stubbornly at the carpet when the bed beside him sank beneath Dad’s weight. Dean lifted the cloth away, rested his hands against Sam’s knees. “This is gonna hurt, Sam,” Dad told him.

    “Yeah,” Sam said with a shrug.

    “You sure you wanna do this here? We can go to the hospital.” Dad’s voice was surprisingly gentle. Sam’s throat had felt tight.

    “No, it’s fine.” Dad hadn’t lied, and other than getting his neck torn open, having it put back together was the worst feeling Sam had ever experienced. When the stitches were finished, Sam collapsed against the pillows, exhausted. His father’s face had swam in front of his eyes, seemingly in constant motion from side to side. “You aren’t mad?” Sam had asked. “You seemed awful mad back there.”

    “Sammy,” Dad had sighed. “I was scared. I thought I was gonna lose you.” Sam had fallen asleep that night with his father sitting on the bed next to him in their shared motel room. Curled up on his side in his own room, Sam told himself he was much happier this way.

\------------------

    “So,” Dean started awkwardly the next morning as he walked Sam to his homeroom. Registration had been difficult– the principal wanted to speak to their dad, and Dean had needed to lie through his teeth about him getting settled in at work before they’d let him sign Sam’s papers.

    “What?” Sam asked sullenly.

    “Dad, uh, Dad thinks you should join a club. You liked the, uh– mathletes thing back in Wisconsin, right? Maybe they have one here.”

    “Dad wants to keep me distracted,” Sam said in a deadpan, “So I don’t get my head torn off?”

    “Come on, Sam. Jesus. Just fucking do what your told for once.”

    Dean stormed out, and Sam slunk into his homeroom. He knew that going through the school day with a scowl wasn’t a great way to make friends, but nothing could lift his mood. At the end of the day, Sam dragged himself to the guidance office. There was a sign up sheet for a sports team hanging in the window. Sam dug through his bag, reading the surprisingly short list of his future teammates’ names. At the bottom of the list, his own name was written in red ink. Dean, Sam knew. He wanted to scratch his name out in protest. Why couldn’t they just let him choose, for once, what he wanted to do? Sam stared at the page for a long time, rolling his pen between his fingers. In the end, it was easier to walk away. Sports were supposed to be good for getting out frustration, anyway.

\------------------

    Dean did get a job down the street, washing dishes at a bar, and by the time Dad returned from his hunt– “A fucking Abarimon, if you’ll believe it”– things were mostly settled. Sam’s first soccer practice was at the end of the school the day after Dad returned, and as the week had passed he’d realized he was actually looking forward to it, despite his resentment toward Dean for signing him up.

    Sam sat on the bench next to a boy from his English class– David. He chattered in Sam’s ear about the upcoming soccer season, saying it was lucky Sam had moved in time to join the team. They worked on half seasons, and they only had empty spots because a few others had dropped out of school this semester. Now, with only a little over a month left of school... Sam wondered if he’d finish the school year here, if he’d play the final game at the end of the season. Sam was glad that David was the type to look past Sam’s grumpy behaviour his first day. He hoped that others would, too, in time.

    Sam wiggled his toes in the ends of his cheap canvas sneakers. Through the thin material  he could see he distinct bulge of his individual toes as they pressed against the tops of his shoes. He looked down the line of the bench at the other boys’ feet. Sam felt his stomach twinge in jealousy. He’d never be able to afford a pair of cleats. He was glad the jersey and socks were provided by the school.

    By the time they were on the field running drills, Sam felt his reservations begin to slip away. He wasn’t coordinated enough to take out a fachen without getting his neck torn open, but he could get the ball into the net, and he could dribble and pass with precision. He liked the feel of the wind in his hair and the sight of grass blades blurring into each other beneath the ball as he made his way down the field. Sam wasn’t as fast as Dean, but he was fast– faster than most of his teammates, even though he was smaller than a lot of them, and one of the youngest on the team.

    As practice wound down and the boys finishing their finally lap, many continuing their run straight on to the parking lot where their parents waited, Sam got a slap on the back from one of the boys a couple years older than him.

    “Welcome to the team, man, I can tell you’re gonna be great.”

    Sam grinned in return. He opened his mouth to say something but the coach called his name. He waved vaguely at his teammates and trudged over.

    “Yeah?” he asked, shuffling his feet.

    “You did well today, Sam. You should get some cleats.”

    “Yeah, I meant to... We, uh, just moved in. Haven’t really had time to go out and pick things up.” It was only half a lie, and he could probably make it work until the end of the season.

    “Of course,” Coach Turner said. “See you next week, Sam.”

    Dean was waiting for him at the front gate. They walked home together slowly, Dean bitching about his new boss with Sam only mostly listening.

    “Where’s Dad today?” Sam asked during a moment of silence.

    “Presque Isle. Talking to the police about the missing women.”

    Presque Isle was a small city under a half hour away. Sam wished for a moment that they’d been able to go with Dad. Maybe there was a thrift shop there. He could have looked for soccer shoes. He sighed, feeling his shoulders slump. He wished that their life could be– easier. He understood that Dad was obsessed with the hunt, that he wanted revenge for their mother. Everything would be so different if she were still here. Would she have wanted Dean to have almost 10 kills under his belt by the time he was 15, and probably more than a hundred by the time he was legally an adult? Would she have wanted that for Sam? Would she come to his soccer games and cheer him on?

    “Hey.” Dean’s voice drew him out of his thoughts. “Everything okay?”

    “Yeah,” Sam said. “Just thinking.”

    Dean unlocked the front door in silence, and shuffled over to the small kitchenette. He flicked on the stove, pulling a pot from the cupboards at the same time as he let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

    Sam settled at the table with his books and worked on his homework as Dean cooked. Dean’s presence as he cooked, and the smell of the melting cheese and macaroni was relaxing. Dad came in just as Dean was setting Sam’s plate in front of him.

    “How’d it go?”

    John grunted and sat down across from Sam, accepting a plate from Dean as well.

    “You’d think they hadn’t noticed there were any women missing at all,” John said, stabbing angrily at the food in front of him. “This is gonna be a tough one to crack. I did find out one thing, though. The woman who went missing last week had a couple of kids.”

    “The hooker had kids?” Dean asked through a mouthful of macaroni. Their table only had two chairs, so he was leaning against their counter, supporting his plate on the palm of his hand.

    Sam frowned. “Dean, it’s estimated that 50% of sex workers have children.”

    Dean swallowed a mouthful of macaroni that was far too large– Sam could see the lump in his throat as it worked its way down his esophagus.

    “How the hell do you know this shit, Sam?” Dean asked. “And who cares?”

    “I read it in a– a pamphlet I found, sitting at the bus stop when we were in Denver.”

    Dean stared at him in silence for a moment while their father picked at his macaroni, not seeming to pay attention to their bickering. Dean scoffed eventually, piling food onto his fork.

    “You picked up one of those free feminist hippy mags people leave lying around like propaganda, didn’t you?”

    Sam turned back to his food. “It wasn’t a hippy mag,” he muttered.

    “So,” Dean ventured, loudly enough that Dad looked up at him. “Where’re the kids at now?”

    “Well, that’s the thing,” John said. “The kids are missing. But some of the other missing women had children as well, and they were always the ones who reported their mom gone to begin with, or went to their neighbours or someone they knew to report it. Said they just woke up and she wasn’t there.

    “So maybe a friend took them in,” he went on. “I’m gonna head over to the district where she worked tomorrow night, find out where her kids are at and see if I can talk to them. Maybe they saw something.” Dad breathed deep, pushing his plate away. “How was your first practice?”

    “Good,” Sam said. He thought of asking if there would be any money for cleats, but only briefly. He didn’t even know if he’d be around long enough to play a single game.

    “Better than good,” Dean added. “Sammy was the best one on the team.”

    “You weren’t even watching,” Sam said with a roll of his eyes.

    “I was! I was there half the practice. Jeez, Sam, your observation skills could use a bit more work.”

    Sam didn’t know what to say to that. He cleared his plate and Dad’s, and washed the dishes as Dean put away the leftovers. When Sam slipped into bed that night, he wondered if better observation skills would have helped in Denver.

\------------------

    Mary’s breath formed a visible mist in the cold. She shoved her hands deep in her pocket, scanning the streets around her. They were mostly empty, with a few groupings of people hanging out under the porch of a house nearby. At this time of night, in this part of the city, a girl her age should have been nervous– and Leanne was only 2 years older than her, their combined ages barely over 30. Together they must have looked like the most vulnerable set on the street.

    Mary’s knife sheath felt warm against her ribs. She walked with her chin up.

    Leanne nudged her in the side, and jerked her head toward a building not far ahead. A dark-skinned woman with long, straight black hair leaned against the grey brick wall, one knee bent with her foot resting on the building’s side. They had come across more than one prostitute out in this small town district, but the others had refused to speak to them, shaking their heads, lips pursed in a promise of silence.

    They approached her slowly. She watched every step they took.

    “Hi,” Leanne said when they were about 10 feet away. She pulled a folded page from her pocket and shook it out, holding it up for the woman to see. “You recognize her?”

    The woman glared at the photo and then at them, but eventually her look subsided into a wary scowl.

    “I knew her. She’s gone now, so it don’t matter.”

    “Could we.... ask a few questions?” Mary ventured.

    The woman sighed. “I’m working, girls, I gotta make money sometime.” She gestured to the moon, still low in the sky, and the darkened street around them. “Now’s it.”

    “We’ll pay you for your time,” Leanne assured her. The woman sighed and looked skyward. Finally, she nodded.

    Her name was Sandra, and she ushered them into a dirty 24 hour diner nearby. As they settled into the booth, the waitress glared in their direction.

    “Can’t stay here if you aren’t ordering,” she groused.

    “I’ll have a milkshake,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

    Sandra ordered a burger, and raised an eyebrow at the two girls sitting across from her. “You’re paying.”

    “Sure,” Leanne agreed easily. She slid the photo across the table. “So, you knew Ms. Raintree?”

    Sandra pressed her fingers to the page on either side of the smiling face in the photo. She pursed her lips together, and the three sat in silence until the waitress had plunked Mary’s milkshake gracelessly in front of her. Mary whipped her hand out to prevent it from toppling over and spilling.

    “What a case,” she muttered to Leanne as the waitress walked away.

    Sandra scoffed. “Every one in this place is a case, sweetheart.”

    “So we heard,” Leanne prompted smoothly. “We also heard some people saying that was why so many women were going missing– that they were leaving on their own. Because of the way things are here.”

    Sandra nodded. “Some of them, I reckon. But not Amy. She never woulda left her kids. She loved them more than anything else.”

    “And the other missing women?” Mary asked. “Did they have any reason to stay here?”

    “Not overly much.”

    Sandra sighed loudly and rubbed her forehead. In the light of the diner, it was clear to Mary that she wasn’t healthy; the dark bags under her eyes indicated a life with far too many waking hours that could have passed for a nightmare. Her long, straight hair looked brittle and limp. Mary fiddled with the straw in her milkshake, not drinking. She looked over at her cousin, caught her eye. Leanne shook her head minutely, and fixed her attention on the woman in front of them. They waited.

    “ _No one_ got much to stick around for here, ‘cept those of us with family...” Sandra finally told them. “But we haven’t got a way out either. All girls like me n’ Amy can do is work as hard as we can, and hope it pays off, so our daughters never have to do the same thing. I dunno how half of the girls that gone missing could have just walked away. Most of us are from the reserves nearby. Amy was from Canada... She came over here ‘cause there was nowhere nearby in her country she could make any money.” Sandra scoffed. “Nowhere to make any money here either.”

    “So... no one’s left by choice, is that what you’re saying,” Mary said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

    Sandra bit her lip, and glanced at the window where the waitress was chatting with the cook. Mary glanced over, but noticed nothing amiss. When she returned her gaze to Sandra, she saw the raw hunger in her face and realized she just wanted her food. Mary wondered if she held off on eating in order to feed someone else, a daughter or son maybe. Mary shoved her milkshake across the table. The returning smile was faint, but Sandra pulled the shake to her and drank deeply.

    “I’d say I don’t need charity,” Sandra muttered when she was done drinking. “But I do. We all do. There’s no place for women like us in this world.” She looked Leanne square in the eye. “I’ll tell you what, though. Amy was doing well for herself, the last couple a weeks before she went missing. Some customer was giving her big bucks. She said he was just some guy, didn’t tell me a name. But sometimes... she’d have marks on her, like she’d been bitten. Not like a person’s mouth though, like an animal’s, you know? Couple a real deep canines on those bite marks. And Tara– she went missing a couple of months ago, too– she was also doing real well before she went.”

    Mary leaned back in her seat, narrowing her eyes.

    “And the other girls? When they went missing, had they been... bitten? Were they making more money than usual?”

    “I didn’t notice. I didn’t know all of ‘em.... But Selma went missing last year, and she was as dirt poor as I am.”

    “You didn’t get a look at this... rich guy?” Leanne asked.

    “No, sorry.”

    “Alright, well... I think that’s all we needed to know,” Leanne told her, and smiled wide. She reached into her wallet and pulled out a ten, laying it down on the table. “Enjoy your meal.”

    Mary slid out of the booth, but was stopped by a warm hand on her wrist. Sandra was looking at her with wide eyes.

    “I don’t think you girls understand what you’re digging into. Be careful.”

    Mary grinned. “Don’t worry about us.”

\------------------

    The weeks passed, and Sam played his first game. They didn’t win, but it wasn’t a horrible loss, and Sam had even scored a goal. He did his homework. He went to practices. And he stayed out of the case, even though he heard Dad raging to Dean on multiple occasions about the lack of leads. Another woman had gone missing, and still all he knew was that something– or someone, Dean theorized– was taking them. On occasion Dad would leave to take on a smaller hunt nearby, something he could do on his own in a couple of nights, or sometimes with a friend passing through Maine. Sam thought it must have made him feel better, to know he was still helping people.

    One such day, when Dad’s friend Bill had picked him up the evening before as they headed off to tackle a nest of vamps, Sam saw Dean tucking a gun into the back of his pants before he left. He grabbed his shoes and raced out after him.

    “Where are you going?” he asked, panting after running down the two flights of stairs.

    Dean turned around, not having heard him follow. “Into Bridgewater. Dad wants me to drive around, just– keep an eye out, I guess.”

    “Can I come?” Sam asked.

    “No, Sam, you know you can’t hunt. Dad’s rules.”

    “But you aren’t hunting, right? You aren’t even gonna get out of the car. Come on, please?”

    Dean glared, but relented.

    “Get in.”

    The drive into Bridgewater was quiet, just like the town. The sun was bright, and Sam squinted his eyes against the glare coming off the metal welcome sign as they entered town. With the windows rolled down, even the breeze coming into the car was warm. The nice weather hadn’t made Bridgewater any more lively, though. A single woman entering the post office, clutching the hand of a little boy, was the only sign that the town was populated at all.

    “This is a waste of fucking time,” Dean muttered.

    “Pull into the post office,” Sam said, watching the door swing shut behind the woman who’d just entered.

    “Why? You think we’re looking for a wayward mailman?”

    “No, Dean, don’t be such a dick.”

    Dean yanked the wheel around, turning the car into the post office parking lot last minute, and Sam cracked his head against the window with the momentum of the turn. They trudged up the tiny ramp leading into the building together. A cheery bell went off overhead as they entered. The woman Sam had seen was waiting at the desk. The boy, her son probably, was seated on a single chair at the side, playing with a toy car. She watched him with a look of intense affection. Sam tried to picture his mother looking at him like that, but couldn’t.

    Sam cleared his throat. She turned and smiled. Her eyes were a bright blue, and her face was pretty.

    “Sorry, do you think you could give us directions to Presque Isle? We seem to’ve gone the wrong way.”

    “Oh of course,” she said. “It’s not hard. Turn left, take the road straight outta town. You’ll come to a gas stop. Head west from there, and when you get to Mars Hill, there’ll be a sign in the town center, past the theater, directing you to Presque Isle.”

    “Thanks a lot,” Dean said warmly. “The signage here isn’t great. Small place, huh?”

    “Oh, it is, but sometimes that’s the best way. The people all know each other, and things don’t change too often. Why this post office has been owned by the same family for a hundred years.”

    “Huh, looks newer than that,” Sam said, looking around.

    “Well, the old building caved in to the basement one night in ‘71. There were people inside and everything, or a woman at least. They had to rebuild. Didn’t get it finished ‘til ‘82. Money problems.”

    Sam hummed.

    “Well, thanks again for the directions,” Dean said, gripping Sam’s shoulder. They left in silence. As Sam pulled the creaking door of the Impala shut, he saw Dean tapping the steering wheel with his index and middle fingers, face twisted.

    “What was the point of that?”

    “I dunno,” Sam said. “Just thought it’d be good to talk to someone from around here, you know? And–”

    “Did we actually learn anything though? And how the hell does a family own a post office? Isn’t that a government thing?”

    Sam bit his lip. “I’m more interested in the fact that it caved in the same time our disappearances in the 60s and 70s stopped.”

    “It’s a post office, Sam.”

    “It’s a post office in the town surrounded by a ring of missing women, Dean. And when it caved in, women stopped going missing.”

     Dean looked out the window. He cranked the ignition, and the Impala rumbled to life.

    “Until now,” he muttered.

\------------------

    “The post offiice,” Dad repeated in a deadpan. “We thinkin’ the mailman’s taking revenge? Why’d you bother goin’ in anyway, Dean?”

    Sam snorted and bent over his homework. Leave it to both Dean and Dad to come up with something like that.

    Dean kept a straight face.     “Just– she was the only person I saw at all around Bridgewater. It’s the center of all this activity, so it didn’t make sense not to talk to her. But the post office– It caved in, in ‘71. That’s when the disappearances stopped.”

    “True,” Dad agreed. “And it is in Bridgewater. Not much else is.”

    “Right, and the woman– the woman I talked to, said there was a woman inside during the cave in. Well... Some sort of struggle could have caused the collapse of a support column and lead to the cave in.”

    “Caved in at night, too, she said,” Sam mused, not looking up from his homework. “That’s weird, right? People inside a post office at night?”

    Dad or Dean responded with silence. Sam lifted his head to regard them. Dean’s eyes were wide, and he licked his bottom lip as he stared at Sam.

    “Sam,” Dad finally said. “You didn’t go with Dean, did you?”

    “I–”

    Dad slammed his fist on the table.

    “God _damnit_ , Dean! You’re supposed to be keeping him safe while I’m not here.”

    “We just drove down Main street, Dad–”

    “Sammy, _be quiet_. Stay out of this.”

    “– the only thing that possibly could have gone wrong was if I got blinded by the sun bouncing off that fucking _Welcome to Bridgewater_ sign, and I’m pretty sure it’s too rusted for that!”

    “Sam, for God’s sake. Stay out of this. You blundering your way into something’s lair doesn’t help me _or_ those missing women.”

    Sam huffed a breath out through his nose. Was he too incompetent to even sit in the passenger seat of the Impala now? He tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. He flipped his textbook onto the floor and threw his pencil down on the table as he left. Inside his bedroom, behind the closed door, he could hear Dad’s voice.

    “ _What were you thinking, Dean? How many times does Sam have to get hurt before you learn your lesson?_ ”

    One little mistake in Denver. Would Dad ever trust him? Sam laid down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. When he couldn’t listen any longer, he covered his face with his pillow. He could still hear Dad’s voice, raised and angry even if he couldn’t make out the words. It’s not like anything had gone wrong in Bridgewater. It’s not like anything _could have_ gone wrong. They were just driving through. And Denver– They hadn’t even been expecting a fachen, and they’d all been caught by surprise. Dean’s voice was much lower than Dad’s. Even when Sam moved the pillow and strained to hear, he couldn’t make out the words. Eventually he heard the door to the other bedroom close, and heard the bedframe settling as Dean crawled in. Dad was sleeping on the sofa, and Sam could hear the sound of the television, muted by the wooden door between them, well into the night.

\------------------

    Mary peered through the rain at the women standing across the darkened street, one on each corner of the block. Leanne was eating a bag of chips beside her, looking far less stressed than Mary felt. A car pulled up to the first woman, a man with a baseball cap pulled down over his face inside. He beckoned her close.

    “Ok, that’s creepy. That’s something, right?” Mary asked, and then tossed her head back against the headrest in frustration. “This is all creepy! Every one of these pick ups looks weird to me. How are we supposed to pick out supernatural I-will-bite-you creepy from regular creepy?”

    Leanne shrugged. “We might have to wait until she gets back, see how she’s doing.”

    “How do we even know this is where she’ll come back to?” Mary asked in exasperation. “What if she just goes home?”

    “She’s working, Mary, and it’s only eight o clock. I doubt she’s standing in the rain just to work one job tonight.”

    “But if he pays her well enough? That’s what Sandra said, right, that he’s paying them well.”

    Leanne made a humming noise. “To keep quiet, maybe,” she murmured. “He could be well-known around here. I mean why would he be paying so much...”

    Mary couldn’t help herself and snorted in derision. “You don’t think they charge extra for the biting?”

    They watched the dark car drive slowly away into the night, now with the woman inside. Mary wondered where they’d go. Would they pull into a nearby alley? Or drive out of town and park in the woods? Leanne was worrying at the inside of her cheek with her teeth, just at the corner of her lip, giving her face a pursed look on one side.

    “I don’t know. Guess we’ll find out.”

    “This doesn’t make sense,” Mary said grumpily. “If our guy is some sort of– creature. Not a werewolf, not a vampire. But something... that passes for a person, and he’s– he’s cruising these women for weeks before he kills them... Why? Why doesn’t he kill them the first night? Why does he bite them and then let them go?”

    “I’ve been wondering that myself. I thought maybe–” Leanne cut herself off, frowning. She squinted at the one woman remaining within view. It was hard on their eyes to peer through the rain. Mary was sure it would have been lighter this time of night, if not for the thick rain clouds. Without them, the light of the moon would have been stronger.

    “Maybe he is a werewolf,” Mary suggested, as she thought of the clouds blotting out the moon from vision. “Maybe he bites them, and then... he kills them before the full moon, so there’s never another werewolf on his territory.”

    Leanne shook her head, and Mary could hear her double hoop earrings clicking against themselves. She was still biting the inside of her cheek. If she didn’t stop soon, Mary thought she might draw blood.

    “I don’t think a werewolf could exercise that sort of restraint, to bite and not kill, even in human form. And there’s no real pattern of women going missing anywhere near a certain time each month... But you know– one of the first women we tried to talk to– the blonde. She was outside the old warehouse?”

    Mary nodded.

    “I don’t know if you noticed. She had... a scar. On her arm.”

    Most of the women they’d seen around here had scars, of some kind of another. Mary hadn’t noticed.

    “A bite mark,” Leanne went on. “But old, permanent-like. She could’ve been bitten by a dog a year back, and the scar would have been right.”

    “So... you’re thinking what?”

    “What if... he doesn’t kill them right away, because he’s looking for something particular?”

    Mary blinked. She waited silently, not quite understanding at first.

    “You think he’s– taste testing?” she asked. “That could just be... a person. We could be sitting here looking for a deranged man.”

    “A man that leaves those sorts of bite marks?” Leanne whispered.

    Mary sighed. “Right. Okay. So.”

    But she didn’t know what else to say. Another car pulled along the sidewalk, and the woman leaned into the light of the lamppost as she bent over to talk through the window. In the light Mary could see dark circular markings on the smooth skin just above her skirt. Mary hissed, and hit her cousin’s shoulder.

    “Check out her stomach.”

    “Bite marks,” Leanne noted. “So... is this the same guy back for more, or is it someone new...”

    “One way to find out.”

    Leanne flicked off the headlights, and pulled the car out into the street.

\------------------

That weekend, Dean walked with Sam to his second game of the season, silence heavy upon them. He had his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Sam wondered if he was going to work, or meeting Dad  somewhere to look for leads on the case. Outside the school gate, Dean stopped Sam with a hand on his shoulder.

    “I got you something,” he said, voice pitched low. Dean was not one to make his displays of affection too loud. He thought it was girly, Sam guessed.

    Dean held the duffel bag out to him, and Sam took it. Inside were a pair of cleats, well-worn but in his size.

    “You didn’t have to,” Sam said, pulling them from the bag.

    Dean shrugged, slinging the now-empty bag over his shoulder and shoving his hands in his pockets.

    “I don’t mind. I got them off a lady from work. Her kid used to be on the team. I–” Dean licked his bottom lip. “Sam, I’m sorry for dragging you into shit all the time. You should be able to just get a new pair of cleats and go to soccer games and– and you shouldn’t have those scars on your neck or– or have to deal with any of the stuff that happens because I haven’t been looking out for you.”

    Sam blinked, for a second feeling like he was balancing on a wire, unable to go forward because he didn’t know how he’d gotten there to begin with.

    “Dean– what? Man, don’t listen to Dad. I _asked_ to come with you yesterday, and it’s not like I got hurt. And Denver– that wasn’t your fault. I should have been paying attention more closely. You said yourself I’m not great at observation.”

    Dean shook his head. “Yeah, well, you’re a kid. Come on, get to your game.”

    He jerked his head toward the field. Sam knew he wouldn’t listen if he tried to convince Dean it wasn’t his fault, so he trudged to the bench to sit next to David. He pulled off his old canvas sneakers and put on his cleats. They fit perfectly. He looked up at the stands. Dean waved.

\------------------

Sam winced as his foot came down on a twig. He froze, waiting with baited breath. When nothing in the forest around him responded, he picked his way carefully onward. He wasn’t sure which way Dean and Dad had gone, or even how they’d gotten separated... It had all happened too fast to see, too fast to process. He adjusted his sweat-slick grip on his knife, rubbing the handle on his jeans to dry it.

    He heard something crashing through the forest in the distance, and snapped his head around, straining his ears. It came impossibly close, impossibly fast, and amid the snapping of branches Sam could hear a high pitched wailing, like an animal caught in a trap. He ran, his legs already weak and his heart pounding. It was right behind him. A tree splintered with a crack so loud it echoed twice in great booms across the mountains–

    Sam awoke covered in sweat. In the tiny living room he could hear Dean swearing and tinny metal instruments clattering on the coffee table. The floor was cold against Sam’s bare feet, and his shirt was drenched. Shivering, he pushed the door to his bedroom open slowly.

    Dad was lying on the sofa, Dean on the coffee table in front of him, with their first aid kit spread out beside him. At this angle, Dean’s back blocked most of Sam’s view. Dad’s face was drawn in pain, his forehead damp with sweat the way Sam’s felt. The knees of his jeans were spattered with blood. Sam hesitated where he was.

    “Dean?”

    Dean jumped, cursing still.

    “Go to bed,” he muttered, not turning to look at Sam. He snipped a length of string and thread the curved needle Dad used for doing stitches. Sam was surprised, as always, that his hands remained so steady.

    “Is there anything I can do?”

    “You can go to bed.”

    “Do what your brother says, Sam.”

    Dad’s voice was so weak he barely heard it. Sam rubbed his lips together, hesitant, his hand upon the doorknob to his room.

    “What happened?” he asked.

    Dad sighed, and winced as Dean leaned over him, starting to stitch. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter than they already were.

    “I checked out the post office last week, after you boys told me you thought it was important. In the basement, some of the back walls leading out to the field behind the place felt hollow. So I figured there was a cave network... ow, Dean, you don’t need to stitch my fucking kidneys!”

    “ _Stay still_ ,” Dean snapped.

    Dad exhaled long and slow, and for awhile there was silence.

    “And then?” Sam prompted, mostly because he wanted to hear Dad talk. His voice had been reassuringly steady when he told them he went to the post office. It let Sam know that he was probably okay, no matter how pale he was. From Dad’s tiny smile, Sam thought Dad probably knew.

    “I checked out the woods beyond the field... Took me until today, but I found the entrance to the cave, farther from the post office than I expected, if the caves eventually connect... I didn’t get very deep inside. Someone just came at me. A man...” John opened his eyes, the first time since Sam had left his room. “Or I thought he was. He was hurt by every weapon I used, but something told me he wasn’t human... I– I killed him. By then we’d made it out of the cave in our fight, through a different entrance than the first... even farther from where I’d left the car. I went back to the car... for salt, and lighter fluid. To burn the body. It wasn’t fucking there when I got back.”

    “So... you didn’t kill him, after all?” Sam asked, sitting down on the coffee table behind Dean, facing away from their father. Dean’s back, pressing along Sam’s own, was warm despite Sam’s sweat-drenched shirt. His heartbeat was steady, and his breathing even.

    “No, I’m telling you, I killed him. He just got up and walked away after. It’s like, the killing blow couldn’t kill him, you know? Something was keeping him... alive, here on earth. Deathless.”

    “Alright, that’s enough,” Dean cut in gruffly. “Sam, get to bed. Dad. You need to rest.”

Dean stood, and Sam felt his hand on his shoulder, guiding him up and to his bedroom door. When he turned to look, Dad was sleeping peacefully, bandages wrapping his ribs. Sam left the door open as he went into his room. He rearranged his pillow so that it was at the other end of the bed, and crawled in, wincing at the wet puddle of his own sweat in the center of his mattress. With his head laying on his pillow now, he could watch his father’s breathing, monitoring the  even rise and fall of his chest. Dad looked peaceful in his sleep, but in his ears Sam could hear his own heartbeat, sounding like it would shatter ribs.

\------------------

    When Sam got up the next morning, Dad was sitting at the table, with Dean hovering over him. Sam poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat across from Dad, who was picking listlessly at a plate in front of him, piled with what looked like just about everything Dean could find in their tiny apartment.

    “I was thinking, about– this creature that doesn’t die,” Sam said eventually. _Deathless_ , Dad had said the night before. He didn’t mention that he’d lain awake all night trying to figure it out as he watched Dad sleep, only shutting his eyes and surrendering to unconsciousness as the sun slowly started to fill their apartment with light. “What if there’s something– outside his body, keeping him alive. You said it was a killing blow, that his body was dead and he couldn’t move. So it must be something other than his _body_ that let him walk away.”

    “Like what?” Dad asked, as Dean said, “We can talk about this later.”

    But Dean fell quiet with a glare from Dad, and Sam went on.

    “Well, there’s stories of men who have removed their soul from their body, in an attempt to achieve mortality. They hide it somewhere, in an object... something they can protect and hide. Like a needle, or a pendant. In some stories, their own heart.”

    “Stories?” Dean echoed. “Sam, we need something a little more concrete than stories. Something with information, something– backed up. We don’t need fairy tales, we need _lore_.”

    “Fairy tales _are_ lore,” Sam insisted, but Dean’s only response was to roll his eyes. “And there are backed up stories, famous ones.”

    “Of immortal guys hiding their soul in a fucking needle, Sam? Like who?”

    “Well, according to the lore– Koschei the Immortal, Baš Celik in Serbian lore....” Sam racked his brain, frustrated at having to supply information from his memory to prove himself, before he even had a chance to do any research. “...Davy Jones,” he muttered eventually.

    “Davy Jo– are you kidding me? Are you listening to this, Dad? _Davy Jones_?”

    Sam started to argue but was cut off.

    “We get the picture, Dean.” Both brothers fell quiet at the sound of their father’s voice. “This makes sense. Everything told me he should have been dead. His soul being protected from the damage to his body could explain how he was able to get up and walk away while I went to the car. Good job, Sam. I’ll look into it.” Dad pushed away from the table to stand, and crumpled back to his seat with an expression of pain. “I’ll look into it... next week.”

    “Or a couple,” Dean murmured. Sam followed his train of eyesight Dad’s ribs, where a dark patch had seeped through his t shirt. Sam looked down at his cereal. At times like this, he often wondered what it’d be like to have a mother to turn to for comfort. Dean didn’t talk much about her, and neither did Dad. Sam didn’t know what she was like... if she was nice or funny or if she was the sort of mom who’d hug him tightly when he was scared. In his dreams, she was all of those things.

    It was a useless thought, anyway.

\------------------

The car drifted along the black street with headlights off. At times they had to slow as they navigated corners, but to avoid being seen it was worth it. When they pulled onto the highway, Leanne switched her headlights on.

    “Is this a good idea?” Mary asked. In the ever gathering darkness, she felt more scared than she cared to admit. At least Leanne wouldn’t be able to see it on her face.  “We haven’t done much research. All we know is that it’s probably not a werewolf or a vampire. We don’t know... what weapon to use... how to use it.”

    “We don’t have to fight it tonight,” Leanne reassured her. “We’ll just get a closer look, try and figure out what we’re up against. We’re not even sure this is our guy. Could be a wild chase.”

    They approached the exit to Bridgewater, and the turning signal on the car ahead flashed on. Mary breathed in deep, and reached for her duffle in the backseat. She pulled out a silver knife, and buckled her sheath against her ribs. She continued to rummage through for a minute, not sure what to take and what to leave. She breathed deeply, suddenly aware of her heart hammering in her chest. She’d never gone hunting without Mom or Dad before... and research was one thing, but this was something else. _Stick to the basics_ , she heard her mother’s voice saying. With her pistol in hand, Mary tossed the duffle into the backseat and looked up to see the car they were following pull into a parking lot. Leanne drove past to avoid suspicion, and Mary swivelled in her seat to get a better look.

    “Are they going... into the post office?”

    Leanne pulled into the alley between two of Bridgewater’s few buildings. “At least it’s in town so we can park nearby.”

    The walk through the rain was chilling, but Mary also felt her nervousness being swept away with the water dripping from her face. She was trained for this. She was ready. The door to the post office was unlocked, though the sign said closed. As she pushed it slowly opened, Leanne reached up to quiet a tiny bell above the door that Mary hadn’t even noticed.

    “Leanne...” Mary murmured, standing in the doorway, not wanting to enter.

    “We have to get a better look, Mary. We need to figure out what we’re dealing with if we want to take him out.”

    Mary bit her lip but finally she nodded and followed her cousin in, closing the door behind her gently while Leanne dampened the bell once more. They stood in the center of the waiting area, the only sound around them their own breathing. Mary strained her ears, not understanding where they could have gone. There was a muffled crash from below.

    “Is there a basement?” Mary asked in a whisper.

    Leanne went behind the service desk, moving quickly along the walls, feeling for a door in the darkness. Mary took the wall opposite, and together they worked their way around the room. A scream drifted up from below.

    “Fuck this,” Leanne hissed, and reached up to pull the cord on the light dangling from the center of the room. Mary reached up to cover her eyes against the sudden, painful brightness. She heard something slam, and when she looked up again, a door in the corner of the room was opened, revealing a set of rickety stairs, and Leanne could not be seen.

    She rushed down the steps, descending into the darkness of the basement and calling her cousin’s name, but tripped over something warm at the bottom. An arm grabbed her leg, and Mary realized she had tripped over the very woman they had followed here.

    Mary sat up, reaching out to her. She could feel blood, and knew that they needed to get her to a hospital. She pulled her into her lap, moving her hands over her body in a search for injuries.

    “Leanne!” she shouted. In the darkness she heard crashing, but couldn’t see to know her cousin was okay.  Suddenly gunshots pierced the room, the brief spark illuminating two figures against the far wall. Mary reached into her pocket for her lighter, hands shaking as she pulled it out and struggled to flick it on.

    “Come on, _come on_.”

    Her lighter flickered to life, and she saw two forms lying prostrate on the ground in front of a gaping hole in the wall, leading into a darkened cavern.

    “Leanne?” she whispered, her voice shaking. Mary cleared her throat, and tried again, louder this time. “Leanne?”

    “I’m fine,” Leanne responded, voice quiet, too. “Just– fuck. My leg.”

    Mary pressed her hand against her heart, head swimming in relief. Something groaned and cracked, and she held her lighter out to better illuminate the room. In the corner, a rotten support beam was spattered in blood, and Mary could see the holes left by two bullets. Above the sound of splintering wood, she could hardly hear her own scream.

\------------------

    The school year drew to a close. Sam was torn between being glad and embittered. As Dean drove him to his final soccer game, Sam was hyper aware that it was the final game, and that he’d stuck around for once long enough to see something he started at school through. He’d finish the year with the friends he’d made– and who he’d eventually have to say goodbye to– and if they won tonight there end-of-season barbeque would be that much more fun.

    All of this Sam thought of in the context of the knowledge that they would have left long ago if Dad could finish this case sooner, and that the only thing really holding him back was the injury in his side, healing more slowly than he wanted and leaving him susceptible to infection. And now...

    “So,” Dean finally said, breaching the silence of the Impala’s cab. “Final game tonight. Short season, huh?”

    “The season’s split in 2 parts. First month and a half is at the beginning of the year,” Sam told him. “I only got to join actually cause a few guys on the team dropped out of school and they needed more players.”

    “Huh. Lucky.”

    Sam didn’t think he ever had or ever would consider himself a lucky person.

    Dean parked the Impala at the far end of the parking lot, close to the soccer field, getting out and leaning against the hood as he waited for Sam to get his things from the backseat.

    “Are you staying?” Sam asked. “I thought... you would go help Dad.”

    “Nah, Sammy, it’s your final game. Course I’m gonna watch.”

    Sam scuffed his cleats against the pavement. He liked having his brother’s attention, and he couldn’t deny that he’d wanted both Dean and Dad to come to his final game. They’d both come last week to cheer him on, and the feeling he’d had when looking into the stands and seeing Dean’s angry but enthusiastic cheers, and Dad’s tired smile... for a minute he’d been able to pretend that this was normal, and that the sour look on Dad’s face every now and then was at the bad reffing and not the wounds below his ribs.

    Having Dean here now, he felt selfish.

    “So Dad’s gonna take this thing on alone tonight? Is he... Is he alright to do this?”

    Dean scratched his neck and then reached out to rest his hand on Sam’s shoulder, slowly leading him to the bench.

    “He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think he could, Sam.”

    “But he still doesn’t really know what he’s up against... all he has is my stupid theory about a soul hidden in an object, and it could be anything, anywhere, any _size_.” Suddenly Sam felt a lot less proud about coming up with the idea to begin with. “Shouldn’t– I mean, the more dangerous the case, the more it makes sense for you to go with him. Then you’d be more safe. Together.”

    Dean stopped, and turned to face Sam completely.

    “Sometimes, when the case is more dangerous, it makes sense... for me _not_ to go, Sammy. If this case is too much for us to handle... If there’s a chance we won’t both walk out alive, we gotta do everything we can to make sure one of us will. Even if it means staying at home.”

    “To take care of me,” Sam guessed. “This is what you guys were arguing about last night, wasn’t it?”

    Dad and Dean almost never disagreed, and it seemed like whenever they did it was about Sam.

    “Don’t worry about any of this, Sam,” Dean said, not addressing either of Sam’s statements. “Concentrate on your game. I’ll be watching. Good luck.”

    Sam watched Dean cross the field to take his seat amongst the home team spectators. He trudged over to the bench, relacing his cleats more tightly as he sat and waited for the game to start. If there was one thing Sam was good at, it was throwing himself into other things to ignore everything happening at home. He threw himself into the game with more fervor than he had before in any of their games, and for the first half it paid off: goal after goal, Sam's team came out on top, and Sam had lead them, scoring 2 of the 5 himself, and helping with the others. At half time, with sweat running down his neck and face, Sam glanced to the stands and saw Dean staring into the distance, hardly paying attention. He was sure Dean had been watching while he played, but now that he wasn't on the field, his mind must have been with Dad.

    The reminder didn't help. Sam couldn't focus as well when he went back, and the other team took advantage of the break in their offense to make a comeback. Sam found himself missing obvious passes and fumbling the ball. As he struggled along the field, he had the strangest sensation of hot breath on his neck, and something huge barreling through the air behind him. The ball at one point whizzed past Sam, and he _knew_ , if he was on his game, he could have stopped it. Instead it flew by him and the goalkeeper and brought the score up to 5-6. If the other team scored one more goal they'd be tied. Sam rubbed his forehead, surprised to find he only marginally cared.

    _Dad_ , he thought. _Don't you dare get hurt tonight._

    For a moment, he thought he heard Dad saying his name in return-- but then he realized that it wasn't Dad, it was Dean, and he was shouting. Sam looked to the stands. Dean was looking at him with disbelief, spurring him on.

    "Come on, Sammy, you can do better than that!"

    The whistle blew, and Sam's team got it down to the other end. Another goal would secure their win, but the other team quickly got control of the ball once more. Sam glanced at the clock as he rushed up the field behind the opposing team's number 9. There wasn't much time left of the game, seconds only. The ball was passed from player to player, disorienting Sam and his teammates. The goalie hung low in the corner, where there was a brief skirmish for the ball. From the corner of his eye, Sam  saw a flash of blue-- the other team's jersey-- along the other side of the field, a perfect position to score a goal. Without waiting, Sam dove in that direction. Surely enough, the other team passed to the player Sam had spotted, but when he went for his shot, Sam was between him and the net. He kicked the ball, and it soared out of their quarter of the field, away from the goal. The referee blew the whistle. They'd won.

\------------------

    Mary struggled under Leanne’s weight.

    “We just gotta... get you... inside the motel,” she huffed. She got the door open and helped her cousin inside, laying her down gently. She straightened and reached for the lamp, but the overhead light flicked on before she even touched it.

    Mary spun, brandishing her knife. Standing against the wall with his hand on the lights was her father, and Uncle Peter. He rushed forward when he saw Leanne on the bed.

    “‘m fine,” she was muttering as he checked her over. Mary didn’t turn around to watch them. She felt frozen beneath her father’s gaze.

    “What were you two thinking?” he finally asked.

    “Someone had to do something,” Mary said. “People were dying– and we saved them.”

    “At what cost, Mary?” Sam demanded.

    “What happened?” Uncle Pete asked. Mary heard her cousin’s groan of pain.

    She sighed, and went to sit on the motel bed. “We followed... this creature. A man. To the post office in Bridgewater. He had a woman with him... He was trying to– to eat her, I guess. Or to suck her blood. But he wasn’t a werewolf, or a vampire. He wasn’t anything that could change his victims to be like him. Leanne shot him twice... And the building caved in. Leanne managed to roll into a cave at the side, but. He’d been shot. He was crushed. We took the woman to the hospital, and came back here.”

    “You went after him not even knowing what he was?” Sam asked in disbelief.

    “Well how were we supposed to find out if not by observing, Dad? We don’t exactly have any resources we can just access in an instant. And– I’d never heard of _anything_ like this before. We _had_ to get a closer look.”

    “Why didn’t you go the hospital?” Uncle Peter groused at his daughter.

    “I don’t need it,” Leanne gasped. “It’s just a cut... It’s not broken. Just needs some stitches. You can do it, right, Daddy?”

    Uncle Peter had already opened the first aid kit.

    The process was long and silent. Mary stared at the floor and felt her father’s glare against her back. She didn’t want to look up into Leanne’s pale face, or see the amount of blood surrounding her on the bed. When Leanne’s leg was stitched up, Uncle Peter carried her to her car, and Sam motioned for Mary to get in his.

    “Hey, Mary,” Leanne said as Peter was arranging a blanket on her lap to keep her comfortable in the backseat. Mary went to her, resting her hands against the lowered car window. “That woman, did you catch her name before we dropped her at the hospital?”

    Mary nodded. “Gwen.”

    Leanne smiled, and leaned her head against the seat. Mary could see her pulse point against her neck, slow and uneven. “Gwen,” Leanne murmured. “That’s a nice name.” She reached out and touched Mary’s wrist. She whispered, “Don’t let them tell you what we did was wrong, Mary. Gwen? She’ll live another day because of us, and other women after her.”

    Mary nodded, unable to find words, and let her father usher her into the passenger seat of their car. They followed Uncle Peter’s headlights, onto the highway.

    “You’re lucky we ran into Derek, and he told us where you were,” Sam said at length. “Would you have been able to stitch up Leanne’s leg, Mary? What were you thinking?” he asked again.

    “I could have done it,” Mary muttered. “Someone had to. You always say you want me to hunt, to save people. Well I did. We saved someone tonight... Leanne saved someone tonight.”

    “You _saved_ a woman who barely cares about her own life anyway!”

    “That’s not– It isn’t true. Just because these women have to earn their living a tough way doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to be saved, Dad! And you know what– maybe they don’t care much about their own lives. Maybe they are so unhappy that they wish they would die. But, you know– They do this so that their children won’t have to either, so they can grow up into something better. At least they don’t wish their miserable way of life on their kids.”

    “Mary–”

    “I’m not interested in hearing it,” Mary snapped, crossing her arms. She sank deeply into her seat, watching the freeway pass through the darkened window. Mary fought back the tears in her eyes. In that moment, she swore her children would never be hunters.

\------------------

    Sam saw Dean’s head over the crowd. He waved, a grin on his face. In the aftermath of the winning save, Sam had been swept away by his teammates so fast he hadn’t even had a chance to look for his brother. He felt the excitement of their win drain from his chest. Looking at Dean reminded him of everything else.

    Dean muscled his way through the crowd and swept Sam into a hug.

    “What a save, Sam! You did great.” Sam didn’t think Dean really cared about soccer or could tell a good save from a decent one, but he smiled feebly at his brother’s words anyway. “Everything okay?”

    “Yeah, I just– worried about Dad.”

    Dean nodded, tongue flicking out to touch his lip. “Yeah. Well, maybe this whole celebration barbeque will take your mind off things. Heard some ladies behind me in the stands saying there’d be fireworks.”

    Sam shook his head. “I don’t– really feel like it.” It was true. Where a moment ago had been the blistering heat of his pride and excitement was now a wooden emptiness. “Can we just... go home?”

    “Of course we can. Whatever you want. C’mon.”

    Sam waved to David as they left, and crawled into the passenger seat of the Impala feeling exhausted.

    “Do you think Dad’s okay?” he asked, as Dean maneuvered the car from the crowded lot.

    “I dunno, Sam. Probably.” Dean looked over and at the expression he saw on Sam’s face amended, “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s good at what he does, Sam.”

    “Can we– check?”

    “We can’t go anywhere near the hunt, you know that.”

    “We can’t even... drive by, just to see if we can spot him? Shit, Dean, he doesn’t even have the car. What if he gets hurt and needs to go to a hospital?”

    “Well it’s not like he could drive that badly hurt, anyway, Sam. He told me to drive you to your game after I dropped him off, and drive you straight home, and that’s what I intend to do.”

    “What if he’s hurt again?” Sam asked, his voice small. “And no one’s there to help?”    Dean hit the steering wheel. “ _Fuck_. Fine. We’ll drive through Bridgewater. Just– if we see anything, you do what I say.”

\------------------

  
    The sky grew darker as they neared Bridgewater. The headlight’s illuminated that same, rusted welcome sign Sam had seen so many times now. He didn’t think he could handle being welcomed to Bridgewater one more time.

    The post office was quiet when they drove by, the fields as empty as they’d been every time they came through town. Sam rolled down the window, and the car crept along slowly. Sam strained his ears, waiting for a sign. When it finally came, it was in the form of the loud crack of gunshots, in the direction of the old decrepit barn Sam had seen the first day they’d come to town.

    Dean yanked the Impala onto a dirt road beaten down along the edges of the field, little more than two tire tracks between the grass. The car stopped at the edge of the barn.

    “Stay here, Sam,” Dean muttered as he opened the door and stepped out. Sam heard him opening the trunk. When he reappeared he had a shotgun in his hand. He glanced at Sam as he walked past, freezing for a moment. Dean yanked the car door open. “Get in the drivers’ seat. If something comes at you–” he shoved the gun at Sam. “Shoot it. Get the hell out of here. Then you can ask questions.”

    Dean slammed the door shut, and once equipped with another gun he made his way toward the barn.

    “Who am I supposed to ask?” Sam questioned the empty cab. It was comforting to hear his own voice, a reminder that he was still alive, and okay. It wasn’t even shaking.

    Sam gripped the barrel of the gun Dean had given him, peering into the quickly gathering darkness and listening for Dean or Dad’s voices. Sweat was collecting at his collar bone, he realized. Sam hated this, waiting to know if his family was alive, more than he hated the way he’d wake at night sometimes, remembering the falchen’s hot breath....

    Sam pushed the door open and scrambled out of the car. He approached the barn slowly, hardly daring to breathe. Around the side of the barn was an open door. Sam peered inside. There was enough fading light left coming in through the door Sam stood at, and another on the far wall, that Sam could see the barn was empty except for a pile of rotten old hay.

    “ _Sam!_ ”

    Something hit Sam in the side, and Sam hit the ground rolling, across the floor of the barn, but the weight of the thing that had hit him rolled, too, arms wrapped around him– in protection, Sam realized. Momentum pulled him into a sitting position, and against the door Sam could see his father’s silhouette, pulling his gun around to crack a tall figure in the jaw with the barrel. Dad’s movements were desperate, but even so he fought with a precision and fury that made him seem invincible. The dark figure got an elbow into Dad’s gut, and he doubled over, grunting.

    “Dean!” Dad shouted. “It’s tied around his neck!”

    The arms around Sam disappeared and Dean scrambled across the floor. Sam saw him picking up the gun Sam had dropped when he’d gone down, but the figure was already on the other side of the barn, standing at the door. He tore at the thing around his neck, the thin string holding it snapping. He brandished it aloft for them to see– a needle, just like the legend Sam had thought of. With a savage grin, the man tossed it into the pile of hay and fled through the door.

    “Are you fucking _kidding me_? A _needle_ , really?” Dean cursed. “I know there's something to be said for sticking to the classics--”

    “Find it,” Dad panted, cutting Dean off and taking off across the barn. “Destroy it! I’ll be back.”

    Dean turned and motioned Sam to him, cursing.

    “A needle in a fucking haystack. This has to be a joke– what are you doing? Get over here, Sam c’mon.”

    Sam pushed himself to his feet and went to stand by Dean, who pulled him to him, wrapping his arms around Sam’s shoulders, the two of them facing the haystack. Sam was too tired to protest at being hugged like a child.

    “Dean? Are we gonna find the needle?”

    “We haven’t really got time to look, Sam,” Dean muttered. Sam could feel him fishing in his pocket for something. He pulled his lighter out and flicked it on, tossing it onto the pile. The hay stack went up in flames. “Let’s hope this takes care of it. If it doesn’t, we can look for the needle once the hay’s burned off.”

    Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulders tightly, and Sam felt his chin resting on the top of his head. He realized his brother was shaking.

    “Dean?”

    “Shut up, Sam. We haven’t got a lot of time, okay? When that guy– that thing– comes back, I’ll hold him off. You get in the car and get as far as you can from here. Call Pastor Jim, or Bobby or Kaleb or anyone. Can you do that?”

    Sam squirmed, watching the flame spread farther down the mound of rotting hay. The smell was putrid.

    “ _When_ it comes back?” he asked quietly.

    “He didn’t leave his soul here because he wanted us to have time to find it. He just– fuck. Dad and I both jumped to protect you. He knew we’d stay in this place to find the needle. And he’ll try to run Dad off, before he circles back.” Sam could hear Dean swallowing. “Maybe you should go now, Sam. Dad and I can walk back.”

    “It’s a long walk,” Sam murmured into the fabric of Dean’s sleeve. He could feel Dean’s nod. “You could get hurt.” This time Dean shrugged.

    “You’d be safe.”

    Sam didn’t respond. He reached up to grip Dean’s wrist, and together they watched the fire eating its way toward the soul of the thing chasing their father. The pile grew steadily smaller, until the flame was low to the ground, sitting at Sam’s feet. An ear-splitting boom caught Sam’s attention, and the boards of the barn wall rattled and splintered. Dean shoved Sam behind him, hefting the gun.

    He came from the side, catching Dean unaware. They tumbled across the floor. In the distance Sam could hear his father’s shouting– he was alive. The sound of Dad’s voice shocked Sam into action. He dove at the remaining pile of hay on the floor, ignoring the burn when his hands reached through flame. On hands and knees Sam felt desperately for the needle, the sounds of the scuffle seeming so loud in his ears he wondered if he wouldn’t go deaf.

    Sam swiped at a clump of blackened hay and heard a metallic clatter– the needle rolling across the floor. Dean grunted behind him, a sound that couldn’t be born of anything but pain. His fingers grazed something solid and hot, and Sam pulled back with a hiss before he realized it must have been the needle. He reached again, fumbling it between his burning fingers. He couldn’t grip it well enough to break it, fingers too sensitive. Sam shoved the needle between his teeth and clamped down hard, his tongue flinching to the back of his mouth, away from the heat. He brought his hand down hard against the portion of the needle sticking out of his mouth.

    It shattered, and a scream tore through the air. Sam watched the figure straddling his brother rear up, the sound of its pain tearing through him and causing the old wooden boards to reverberate. From his dark eyes there was suddenly a light so blinding that Sam had to roll to the floor to protect his own.

    When Sam looked up, Dean was struggling out from beneath the dead weight of the deathless man. Formerly deathless man, Sam amended, spitting out the half of the needle still clenched between his teeth. Dean stumbled over to him, hauling him up by his shoulder.

    “Come on, Sammy. We gotta find Dad.”

    They limped out into the now-black night air. In the distance, something flickered and burst, a pink and orange light low in the sky.

    “Hey,” Dean said, pointing. “Fireworks. For your big save.”

    Sam looked over to see Dean grinning at him, his facial expression hard to make out in the darkness. He nudged Sam between the ribs.

    “Not a bad soccer game earlier, either.”


End file.
